Before December
by Beiowulf
Summary: The ceiling above her is covered with old newspapers. She doesn't know why, but she stares at them all the same. She feels the covers beneath her and tries to think back, only to lose herself in a strange haze of mist inhabiting the place where her mind used to be. Blinking doesn't help. Neither does breathing. She doesn't remember where she is. She doesn't even remember her name.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is really more of a teaser/trailer for the rest of the story. Things will make more sense later.

YEAH FOR LATE NIGHT WRITING!

* * *

**Prologue**

The machine gives off steady beeps as he stands next to it, the silent spaces in-between seeming too long to be natural. He holds his breath, feeling the stillness amid each beat like a vacuum within his bones, devouring him from the inside so that eventually he'll just disappear. The room is too cold and metallic and it bothers him the longer he's in it. Stark white walls hold in a bed lain with crisp sheets, the color a whispery translucent shade that would give reason to the lingering scent of bleach. He's considered opening the window, but found himself unable to move. The air outside is cold with the approaching winter season and he doesn't think it would do the buildings occupants much good. And the glass seems so far away, the promise of sound and life outside a distant echo…

Suddenly his knees hit the ground and he lets out a sigh, the air whooshing out of him with a hollow ringing. He extends his hands to place them against the frame of the bed, balancing himself against the cold metal as his head lowers, his forehead brushing the sheets before rising back up.

His gazes trails across the figure sprawled atop the sheets, their limbs haphazardly splayed, their long hair damp and pulled back roughly away from their face. Their face is not entirely visible, hidden behind an oxygen mask as it is, the few tubes running into it barely rivaling the weave of IVs into the person's arm. The skin there is red, irritated; their skin is too sensitive for injections. He remembers how they wouldn't even sit on the grass during summertime, for fear of breaking out in itchy hives.

His hand tightens in the fabric at the recollection, holding onto the feel of his fingers in starched cotton amidst the carousel of endless grey spinning in his mind. That scene, with the grass so green and the sky so blue seems different already, like before he had tampered with it, perfected it, and now it is returning to its real state. It scares him; he knows that the suspicion not true, but he needs reassurance anyway; a confirmation that such a time happened and that such a day was real.

He opens his eyes, only now realizing he had closed them, and continues watching the person in front of him, their breath moving in and out robotically, their heartbeat slow, muscles slack like a puppet without strings. He sees their hand, inches away from his and so cold, but does not touch it, knowing such a thing to be too cruel. He sees the pale veins flowing through the porcelain skin, the flesh so familiar he could trace it in his sleep, but doesn't reach out to stroke them like he had only hours before. Because although the blood and flesh and skin is the same, the face and the hair and those wide blue eyes…

It feels so wrong.

His head falls to the sheets again, finding the image before him blurred with tears he had promised he wouldn't shed. They fall to the shined floor despite his will, seeming like insignificant like puddles amid a great desert, and just as such, they dry up quickly, disappearing into thin air without a trace.

Where did they go?

Those tears were there, weren't they? They fell with a sparkling glory, shimmering in the air with a brief and beautiful life. Then they hit the floor and fractured, shattering into millions of droplets that spread out and reached back towards each other, trying to reunite. They were matter. They were _real_. So…

How did they just disappear?

Kneeling in that disturbed silence, the cold of the tile sinking into his knees, his mind whirls rapidly, wondering what he would do if he found the answer.

* * *

**A/N: **Ahhhhhhhhh, I think Marionette is going to be on hold. Sorry. *Ducks*

I just can't write it! I don't know why! Don't kill me! ;^;

I'll get back around to it soon; you guys know my idea of a break is a little shorter than others.

THAT IS WHEN I DON'T HAVE MAJOR WRITER'S BLOCK

No seriously, wait a month or so. :')


	2. Name

**Chapter 1: Name**

_"Oh!" The word is as sharp and bright as the pain of the hot coffee spilled all over him. A napkin is suddenly shoved into his face and he grabs it, dabbing at the stain. "I'm so sorry!" _

_ He smiles up at the girl, trying to laugh off the loss of his latte and forget the ever increasing burn on his skin. "No, it's fine. Don't worry."_

_ She doesn't look convinced as she dashes back over to the utensil counter and grabs enough paper to print a large dictionary. They are all but thrown at him as she kneels down and begins wiping up the floor with the remainder of the napkins. After wiping up the last of the cream and sugar off the tile she rises, smiling sheepishly. "I'm such a klutz. I'll pay you back." She reaches for her purse, a small blue thing strapped to her shoulder, but he shakes his head, still smiling almost stupidly._

_ "Really, it's okay."_

_ She blinks and finally a true smile stretches across her features. "If you say so." She twirls a bit of stray hair between her fingers and inclines her head slightly in farewell. He gives a friendly nod and stands after she passes by, surveying the damage done to his pants. The fabric is brown, thank goodness, and the spill was localized to just one leg; no embarrassing wet marks. With an exhale he pushes his chair in, barely catching airy words from a lingering patron._

_ "So, what's your name?"_

* * *

The ceiling above her is covered in newspaper clippings. She doesn't know why. Wondering dully, she stares at them, her brain slowly whirring to life as if it had been turned off for a long time. The paper is tapped together in a scrapbook-like style, with pieces overlapping and corners cut into decorative shapes. The flimsy mass spreads out over most of the space above her, running right up the tall window nearby and then thinning out as it expands over the rest of the room.

She blinks, trying to get the farthest corners of the chamber to come into focus but losing sight a few feet away from the edge of the bed she is laid on. Something rises inside her and she sighs, realizing that she needs to breathe. The exiting air sounds too loud in her ears, echoing around and opening her mind up to other sounds; ones she hadn't noticed before.

She has a hand, she discovers. She actually has two. With a surprising amount of effort she lifts her left one up, surveying it a moment before extending it towards the curtained window. There are sounds coming from beyond the glass, whispers of traffic and music and other people. People. Her fingers graze the fabric, only to fall abruptly, dropping back to the bed with a thump.

"Miku?"

She turns her head tiredly, not understanding the word or the strange exhaustion that suddenly has hold of her. She still can't see much; the room is still too dark and there are tiny black dots dancing in her vision. She frowns, trying to figure out what they're doing, as a shift in the shadows alerts her of movement and the world is washed in a bright light.

Blinking at the unexpected sunlight, she glances over to the window again, seeing a cloudy grey sky beyond the tiled roofs of buildings. The scene seems to burn into her eyes, but again she doesn't know why. There isn't anything particularly special about the view. It just is. All the same she feels compelled to watch it, eyes tracing the curves of attic window arches and following the occasional bird that passes by.

There's another hand, she realizes, but it's not hers. This hand is larger, with rougher skin, nails bitten down to the quick. It holds back the curtain gently, as if afraid to do so. Tearing her gaze away from the monochrome scene outside she follows the fingers to the length of arm they attach to, back to a body and lifting slightly to take in a face half-shadowed by the window's light.

His eyes are wide, surprised, and his posture suggests that he had just jumped up from a lower position. His lips part, once, twice, as his gaze wanders almost urgently over her, his eyebrows tilting up in an unspoken question. She turns her head to better face him, trying to lift herself forward to get a better look. However, her strength fails her again and she falls back a few inches onto the mattress.

He reaches down to catch her, but jerks himself backwards halfway into the movement. She watches silently, not knowing what to say, as a light switches off in his eyes. The room is quiet for a moment before he speaks up in a soft and controlled tone. "How are you feeling?"

Her eyebrows knit, the space between them suddenly feeling pressured. Staring into the man's dulled navy gaze, she feels confused, his presence not explainable. Why is he here with her in a dark room, looking at her with such coolly masked concern?

Why is she even here?

Her mind closes in on nothingness, like a child reaching out to catch a butterfly but receiving only air. Digging in deeper, she only feels tired, like she's trying to pull something out from the depths of quicksand. Shutting her eyes and opening them again, the face in front of her slowly hardens and pulls back into the shadows. Dragging the curtains away from the window and securing them to a post, he wanders back to a chair seated nearby.

With the light increased, the rest of the room is visible to her; it's a small attic bedroom, the ceiling slanting downwards over half of the space. Expect for the scrapbook mural above her, the place seems mostly normal. There's a desk and a wardrobe, some chairs and the bed. A few boxes are piled in the corner. The walls are a pleasant cream color and the flooring is dark wood to match the furniture. Is she wasn't so dazed, she would consider it a nice place to be taking a nap and likely go back to sleep.

At the foot of the bed the man looks at her again, the hard unease in his expression changed to agreeable composition. With a push against the backboard she forces herself into a sitting position, her head swimming from the change in blood pressure. As the dizzy purple edges clear from her vision she fixes her gaze on him and thinks.

"I feel strange." It takes her a moment to find words and her own voice surprises her, its tone seeming unfamiliar and bright. He smiles gently at her, laughing a little, and then lowers his eyes to settle into buzzing silence. She waits a moment, gazing around her and processing, before speaking again.

"Where am I?"

It's the question she's wanted to ask since the very beginning, and her heartbeat accelerates as she realizes that it isn't the only thing she's unsure of. The onlooker doesn't seem very surprised by the inquiry however. He only continues smiling that soft smile and gazing at the ground, his elbows leaning on his legs for support.

"This is your room," He states quietly and looks up, shrugging a bit. "At your parents' house."

She takes another look around at the dark furniture, the text covered ceiling, the sleepy neighborhood outside, and tries to swallow down the growing discomfort in her chest. Running her hands over the pale blue quilt covering her, she tries to recall something, a name, a face, anything about this place. Failing that, she spreads out her options. Who are her parents? She frowns and shakes her head, moving on. What's her favorite color? What day is it? How old is she? What is her _name_?

A voice calls out to her and she realizes that she's shaking, her breath coming too fast, her heart beating quicker than a hummingbird's. A gentle push lowers her back to the pillow and she looks up through shaking vision to see the man standing over, his eyes seeming like glass marbles of melancholy blue. He quickly removes his hand from her shoulder and waits, his mouth pressing into a firm line.

"I…" Opening her lips, she finds she can't find words to express herself, the incredible emptiness of time and space that she feels looming inside her. "I…I don't…"

The man's eyes close and he smiles once more, seeming very tired. He extends his arm again, as if thinking of touching her, comforting her somehow, but stops it in midair to hover a few inches away from her arm. She stares at him, not understanding, not understanding anything, and feeling more afraid every second.

_I don't remember._

"I know."

* * *

**A/N: **Q_Q Oh gosh...the feels...*dies*

I suggest listening to 'Hirari, Hirari' while reading this. Really adds to the effect.

Reviews? Please? Tell me if it's too confusing!


	3. Family

**Chapter 2: Family**

Her eyelids flutter in a desperate attempt to make sense of her surroundings; the light from the window seems too bright, the shadow that is the man walking in jerky motions towards the shape-shifting door. Her hand finds its way to her face, feeling over the unfamiliar skin shakily. She traces the curve of her lips, her hairline, feels the large indents of her eyes, before pulling her hand away to rest in mid-air above her. She analyzes the pale appendage, noting the perfectly squared off nails, and then lets it drop, hitting the bed at the same time the bedroom door creaks open.

A pair of people quietly shuffles in and shuts the door behind them. With their eyes lowered and the mournful attitude they exude, it seems as if they had just returned from a loved one's funeral, or perhaps they are just leaving for one. The woman slowly lifts her gaze to focus on her, the clear blue eyes seeming like lanterns in the dark. Deliberately she strolls over to the bed, looking at the girl occupying it for a moment before speaking with a soft smile.

"Good morning, Miku." 'Miku' blinks, mind taking in the knowledge of her name with a surprising ferocity. The phonetics seem to rush into her head, sticking against a wall of her brain and staying there, pulsing. _Miku. Miku. Miku._ Like a heartbeat. A thin strand connecting her blank consciousness to the world.

Miku stares at the woman, trying to order the jumbled mess of questions that threaten to spill from her mouth. Her blue eyes crinkle at the corners, the only sign of her older age, and she continues smiling, the cold aura in the room dissipating. A movement from near the door reminds Miku of the other visitor and her gaze flickers over to him, taking in the small man of similar age that had taken a step forward.

His maroon-tinted eyes show clear uncertainty as he walks over to stand beside the woman, who had now knelt down with one hand reaching across the blanket. Miku stares at the extended fingers, the squared off nails, and feels her throat close up, a strange guiltiness overcoming her.

"Good morning," she says near soundlessly. "Mom." The last word is hesitant, confused, more a question than a statement. The lady breathes in, her eyes lidding halfway.

"Yes." She sounds breathless. "Yes, that's me. Dad's here too." She gestures up towards the man with her free hand. His mouth opens halfway, as if he's thinking of saying something, but closes it quickly, running a hand through his honey blonde hair.

Miku studies the two of them in silence, feeling slightly calmed. They don't trigger anything, no big revelations, no remembrances of bonding time together, but nonetheless they _feel_ familiar. Safe. They feel like a bowl of soup on a rainy day, comforting and nurturing, just like parents should be.

The man - her father, she corrects herself – suddenly speaks, his words mumbled. "Morning, Miku." His eyes trail over her, pricking at her heart with the distant sadness inside them, but lightening up slightly with a hint of humor at his next words. "Though it's half past noon already."

With that her mother jumps up, long layered hair moving in sheets like a pale ocean wave. "I'll get you some lunch," she says flusteredly, tucking a lock of the cerulean tresses behind an ear. "We need to get some food in you." She dances over to the door, peering backwards once with an easy grin before disappearing from sight. "I'll get you some leek and potato soup, okay?"

Miku frowns after her, somewhat confused. The thought of time and place had made her dizzy with disorientation and the idea that her mother seemed to think that she knew exactly what she would want was baffling in the fact that she could not even properly remember what soup tasted like. Her fingers absently trail up to her mouth, thinking, and the man above her sighs, reminding her of his existence.

Finding nothing but bewilderment inside herself, she turns to look at him, hoping for some of the warm paternal security she had felt before. He looks at her for a moment, seemingly at as much of a loss as she is, before moving slightly closer and leaning over.

"You like that soup," he whispers, answering her unasked question. She blinks a couple times at him, taking in the information and trying to memorize his face as well. She stows the two facts away and nods slowly, not knowing what else to say. He is silent for a moment and she watches out of the corner of her eye as his hand clenches and unclenches in stress.

"What can you remember?" The words pour out in a rush, catching her by surprise. She meets his eyes for a moment before looking away, not able to take the defeat that she sees there.

"I can't," she says simply, the syllables ringing out in the room. The words sound so awful, so final, that she almost regrets saying them just an instant after she had. She waits for his reaction, a sigh, a yell, and tightens her hands on the coverlet, expecting something bad. Eventually her vision moves ever so slightly upwards at the same moment his hand comes down to lightly pat her on the head. She stares past his fingers, too long and pretty for his seemingly gruff attitude and tries to find answers behind the battle in his eyes. There's too much going on there for her to understand, grief, pain, hesitance, hope, that she soon gives and asks her questions, trusting him to make the answers clear.

"What happened?"

His eyes close and he breathes out slowly, his thumb rubbing slow circles through her bangs before he gives her one last pat and pulls away. He swallows, looking out the window and shrugging almost apologetically at her. "The doctors say it isn't good to tell you too soon. Might send you into shock." Miku feels her chest tighten at the mention of doctors, but manages to keep a composed expression. The reasoning makes sense, but all the same she wishes that they could just bypass it. Something tells her that keeping her own condition a secret from her was not a very practical idea.

Her father moves across the room, hesitantly reaching for the doorknob. "We'll be back up soon. I'll get you something hot to drink." She nods as he exits, turning to face the window and trying to make her thoughts wander in the right direction.

* * *

He waits at the foot of the stairs as her father trudges down, his shoulders stiff and muscles tight. Though his gaze pierces the older man expectantly it takes a while to get him to say anything, choosing instead to lean against the countertop for a few moments. Suddenly he rolls his neck, sending a series of cracks whistling through the air. The younger man furrows his brows, wordlessly begging his senior to speak, and getting his wish as he straightens up.

"It's just like the psychologist said." His words are abrupt, not even trying to lighten the blow. His hazel-red eyes stare off blankly. The younger man stands there, feeling his jaw tighten in response to the words and closing his eyes as if the thin lids could protect him from their impact. Still the man continues, spurting out the news monotonously as if it's too disgusting to keep inside him.

"Complete amnesia. She didn't even recognize us." The youth keeps his eyes shut though he begins to bite his lip, harder and harder. He doesn't understand why he's so affected by this; it's not like he didn't know it would be this way. He'd been preparing for this moment for the past two weeks, the duration of her coma. It should've been no surprise when she had awoken, dazed, and frightened by his presence. He should be alright, resigned.

But there are a lot of things that 'should' be.

He can't tell whether his lip begins to bleed or not, his whole being feels numb, gone, evaporated like the girl who once inhabited the body upstairs. The only thing he's aware of as he stands still, in a world of black nothing, is a hand that reaches out to touch him on the shoulder, clenching tight as if needing his support to stand.

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

**A/N: **I _swear_ it's not going to stay this dismal. I don't think I handle falling into depression every time I have to write a chapter.

For clarification, Miku's parents are Ring and Lui. Don't give me that face. I already know it's weird. I just needed someone who looked like Miku and that left me with Mikuo or Ring. I couldn't find any Mikuo pairings I liked so...Ring it is.

Tomorrow I'm going on a road trip with my family so I won't be able to write any more for two weeks. I'll still be able to respond to reviews and such though *******_meaningful cough*._**


	4. Situation

**Chapter 3: Situation**

The traffic outside seems too quiet after her father leaves. The watery light from the overcast sky ghosts over the corners of the room, the extent of the world that she knows. Miku sits stiffly hunched over, her shoulders sore and slouched, fingers limp against the coverlet. A glance out the glass next to her gives a moment's interest as she takes in the sleepy neighborhood street, the high townhouses and narrow sidewalks. It seems to be a nice area, with benches and clean alleyways and a few gardens here and there. She watches a few cars drive past before turning her gaze back to the shadowed room, cautiously letting her thoughts wander.

Instead of the overwhelming fear and paralysis that had gripped her before Miku only feels a still calm. Everything seems rather stiff and she debates whether or not she should get up and walk around, stretch out the muscles which seem to have gone numb from lack of use. Feeling strangely detached she swings her legs over to the side and pushes herself up, only to shudder and shake, the wood floor seeming like ice to her bare feet, and fall backwards, her legs giving out in just a few moments.

She frowns down at the appendages, wiggling her toes experimentally. They respond easily enough though the joints crack. Rubbing her arms she cautiously places the feet back on the ground, giving them a test before rising slowly. One hand on the headboard she straightens up, pausing for a moment to let the dizziness of draining blood dissipate. Her sight comes back into focus and she gingerly pads towards the center of the room, a hand reaching up to graze the gently sloping ceiling as she works her way to the corner.

Amid a few boxes covered with cryptic labels a small mirror leans against the wall. Its silvery surface is tarnished, a muted rainbow splotch running across one corner. About the size of a notebook, it lies on its side, reflecting the dark floor and the pale feet standing before it. Taking her time, Miku leans over and grips it around its gold frame, holding it for a moment before bringing it to her face and staring.

If not for the bruise-like circles under her eyes and the sickly pallor of her skin Miku supposes she would look rather pretty. Her hair is smooth and long, its blue-green tresses falling around a small heart shaped face. Her lips are small but soft-looking, her eyebrows pale and high, set like bluish clouds above round aqua eyes.

She raises a finger to prod her cheek and watches as the reflection does the same. With a soft shuddering voice she recites her name, "Miku," and tries to match it to that face; her face. It doesn't help. She feels as if she is meeting a stranger.

Frowning, the face looking back at her frowns too, and she once again examines the shabby state she must be in. Although still pleasing, her hair is roughly tousled and overgrown and her lips are chapped as if nothing had touched them for weeks. With a slight shock she realizes that it is probably true.

How long had she been like this?

Her unfamiliar reflection becomes too much to bear and she sets it down, swallowing the unease building in the back of her throat. She can't put a word to the thing she feels as her mother gently opens the door and glides into the room, a tray of food grasped between her hands. There is no word for the buzzing emptiness in her head, the idea that just outside the door the woman had entered from is a house completely unknown to her although she had likely lived here for her entire life.

Miku's mother smiles curiously at her, standing alone in a corner in nothing but ratty pajamas. She tries to return the gesture, feeling the tired muscles of her face stretch in a way that seems unusual. The older woman beckons her over with a hand and seats her back on the bed, placing the tray in her lap. The steam from the soup tickles Miku's cold nose and she breathes in, the mist traveling soothingly through her nostrils and igniting a deep growling hunger that she hadn't noticed before.

"We've called the hospital and told them you woke up," Miku's mother states, her words lifting up at the end with a strange sort of energy. Miku takes a sip of her warm liquid as she nods in response, eyebrows furrowing as she focuses on the flavor. "They've sent out a doctor to check up on you. After all, you were only allowed home because your condition was stable and you know, I'm a school nurse and all, but they want to make sure nothing's happened. They'll be here real quick." The words all spill out in a continuous stream, as if the silent chill of the attic room scares the poor woman.

Miku nods once more, not finding the energy or willpower to respond otherwise. She watches in silence as her mother's hands fidget in front of her, her long fingers tightening around each other before reaching forward to tap Miku on her own hand. Miku glances up into nervously smiling eyes. "Don't eat too fast. You might get sick." An inspection of her bowl reveals that she had indeed devoured half the soup already. Taking smaller mouthfuls of liquid, Miku's eyes flicker up hesitantly as the door opens a second time, once again unveiling a small section of a hallway before closing and leaving two more human beings in the room.

Her father eyes the lady with him tensely, as if expecting her to suddenly explode into anger and/or flames. The woman for the most part seems to pay him no mind, quickly stepping across the wood floor to halt in front of Miku. Her mother hastily takes the tray out of Miku's lap and sets it on the bedside table. Miku instantly misses its warmth.

"Miss Hatsune," the woman's tone is clipped and monotone. "I'm Doctor Kasane. How are you feeling?"

Miku blinks a couple times at the young looking redhead in front of her before lowering her eyes to the ground. "Weak. Stiff." The doctor nods briefly at her words before setting a bag on the blanket next to Miku and shuffling through it.

"That's to be expected. You were in an immobile condition for a few weeks now." Miku's stomach gives a strange jerk at the simple way she says the words, as if they were discussing the weather instead of the strange blackout she had just gone through. Beyond her, her parents share a glance as Kasane pulls out a blood pressure meter and secures it around Miku's arm, pumping the sleeve full until her fingers lose feeling. Eyeing the gauge, she takes it off and replaces it with a stethoscope on Miku's chest and back, ordering her to take deep breathes as she listens. Finally she pulls back and looks Miku in the eyes, her magenta orbs seeming to burn into Miku's brain.

"What is twenty times six?"

Miku blinks. "One hundred and twenty."

"How many months in a year?"

"Twelve," Miku retorts, becoming bewildered by the doctor's intense stare.

"The average lifespan of an African rainbow toad?"

Miku frowns, her fingers clenching against the sheets. "There's no way that exsists."

Kasane nods slowly, writing something down on a sheet of paper and straightening up. "There doesn't seem to be any basic factual loss. She should be able to function properly day to day." Her parents nod carefully while Miku bites her tongue, careful not to let out the whirlwind of uncertainty that the statement caused. What exactly does she mean by 'function'?

The medic sets a small package down on the table, battling for space with the tray on the small surface. "We'll need a blood and urine sample." She gestures to the package and turns glances at the adults. "I'll leave you to do that yourself." With a flick of her pen she quickly jots something down on a corner of the paper and hands it to Miku's father. His eyes scan it expectantly.

"That's the contact info for a few well-known psychotherapists. If signs of post-traumatic stress disorder or anything unusual with her thoughts show up give them a call. Heck, call them even if they don't." Kasane doesn't seem to notice how Miku becomes very stiff at the mention of the mental illness, her mind instantly whirling even faster about what could've happened to make her liable for such a thing. Her mom had said they weren't allowed to tell her yet, but perhaps she can ask the specialist? Her gaze flickers to Doctor Kasane, sifting through her bag for another tool.

Before she has time to put words together the woman's hand is on her face, holding it still. "I'm checking your optical reaction," she reasons and switches on a small light in the other hand. "Just look straight at it and don't blink." Miku complies, staring into the light as it moves back and forth, back and forth. It's almost hypnotizing the way it moves around her sight, leaving trails of blurriness in its wake. It goes past her multiple times, just to her right in a sudo-rhythmic pattern until it breaks from its path and speeds forward towards her. Forward, so fast forward with its equally bright partner right next to it until they're so close she can feel the heat of them on her skin. But something hits her before she's burned and then she's falling, the wind whistling past her ears and its cold. So cold and she can't move, the light growing farther away every second, the sounds muffled and fading away into icy silence…

A gasp of breath forces its way into her lungs and she lurches forward, nearly hitting the lamp out of the doctor's hands. Her mother gives a cry and lunges forward, cradling her daughters head in her hands. Miku breathes in deeply, trying to calm her eccentrically palpitating heart and wiping the sudden sweat from her brow. In the background people are talking, Miku barely picking up the words "trauma", "accident", and "flashback", along with the order to keep her in bed for a while. Someone exits but she can't tell who; the world is too quiet right now, the floor boards spinning even as she looks at them.

"_Miku_?" Her mother's voice is frantic. "Miku are you alright, honey?" She tries to answer but her voice breaks on the first syllable, the interior of her throat feeling like dry ice. The sound of rushing air still echoes in her ears, the aftershock of the light still dancing in her vision. Another hand touches her shoulder – Dad – but she doesn't respond to her mother's anxious questions and father's gentle prodding until the sound of a knob turning sounds again and she shuts her eyes, the soft grinding hurting her ears.

"Ring?" This voice is lower than the others, male, a soft calm sound like water over stones. "Lui?" he questions again and she feels her parent's heads turn, her own gaze reopening and following theirs and assuring her theory about the newcomer. It is the young man she had woken up to, the one who ran off downstairs after she began to speak. He stands in the doorway uncertainly, a hand gripping the frame for support. His face is carefully controlled though she can see his neck is tense, his jaw tight. His concentrated look is felt every time it focuses on her, like a spotlight, trying to act as if it isn't by flickering back and forth between the adults and she swallows, straightening up and looking him in the eye.

He stiffens almost unperceivably in response but takes a step in, his hand falling from the door and a small smile edging onto the corners of his lips. Her parents – Ring and Lui he called them – rise from beside her, giving him a look before nodding and escaping out the door with the promise of muffins in thirty minutes. They leave the door open, the sounds of their actions wafting upstairs, but except for the echoes of pots banging and cars driving by Miku is left alone with the nameless man.

* * *

**A/N: **I can't believe I'm only on chapter three -_- Well, this isn't going to be that long of a story anyway so...

**IF YOU DON'T REVIEW SOMEONE IN THIS STORY WILL DIE O_O**


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